Tragic Liberties
by Lieutenant Riot
Summary: It was not pretty. There was no way to glamorize it. And it should never be glamorized. Nations, immortal men whom had seen countless tragedies and bloodbaths, choked and gasped. Warning: Tragic scenes and a few tender events, tears and agony abound.


It was a small meeting, really. There were only a few of them present, murmuring quietly over their various beverage preferences, a casual conversation. As close to normality as a semi-formal gathering of semi-normal people could get, considering what they were.

And then came the inevitable, yet unexpected stone to the window.

A piercing, tortured scream.

So sudden, so splintered from shock, that it rips forth as a raw wave of pure sound.

Italy jumped, surprised by the keen of desperation as all eyes flew to the frighteningly familiar man, cast from his chair, to his knees by the wall of sudden pain. His head sat bowed, hands grinding furiously into his eyes. He was whimpering, a small sound that seemed so foreign to his defiance.

"A-Arthur…"

A harsh, throaty gasp clawed from his throat, dragging smatterings of red to the open air as he coughed in the aftermath.

"The T-TV… My…My station…"

His choked words were bitten out through a jaw clenched in barely suppressed agony.

Russia and France had dropped from their chairs to kneel beside him, one drenched in a chilled panic as the other flared with an impassioned fright. Small murmurs poured from their lips as other nations gathered, both around America and the television.

England crouched before the screen, flicking through stations rapidly, searching for the channel that had been encoded into his set years before. His brows were furrowed in worry and confusion as he listened helplessly to his ex-colony, gasping and crying on the floor.

"I-It hurts… Can't s-see…" England's heart crumbled, then a small sigh of relief poured from his lips as a familiar logo was seen in the left corner of the screen. As his eyes moved upward, his heart was frozen in his chest.

There was a pause, only a split second, before panic.

A mirror. The same.

Twins.

Double blankets flew into the sky, joining as one as they rose. A thick, choking wall of black terror flooded from the weeping steel, looming ever hopeful.

"T-Tell me…" The pain was drowning him, snagging on his skin and dragging him down, down into an abyss. A cold silence reigned.

"I-Ivan! F-Francis… Ludwig! Anybody! Just tell… Tell me! I-I can feel… flames…_sofuckinghotstopitnow…_And t-taste the… s-s-steel… Wha-What _is _it?" His voice grated against his throat, catching on the blood as he choked. Russia clutched his hand closer.

Italy was staring, innocent face blank as he watched a catastrophe unwind before his eyes. The TV transfixed him, hypnotized the young boy into uttering the words that the others could not. It was spoken so softly. But he was heard.

"The World Trade Center is under attack."

The horrible, gruesome hush that followed was sickening as the air grew thick and unbreathable. All nations present wished for something to break the stillness. And break it did.

The second scream. Agonized. Hoarse and choked as an animal dying. A howl that heaves itself up one's throat in quick, rough spurts of strength, tearing through vigor and hope with an intent edge.

America's tortured eyes were open now, unseeing and blank, trained as they were across the ocean. Wretchedly watching as his children died, joining the innumerable other ghosts of his past, his present, and his future. The previously sapphire irises were dyed a deep, throbbing crimson. And then, on came the sludge.

Glittering and painful, the thick syrup slid from his eyes, the mess of quicksilver shot through with glowing blood. Russia edges closer, so gentle, to stroke the sludge away with gloved hands as the paralyzed nation below him gasped against the all-consuming pain.

Yet the liquid steel continues to run and the larger nation sighs, brushing his fingers softly over America's eyes, sliding them shut. It leaked from below his twitching lids, stained the pale, fluttering eyelashes that moved to kiss his cheeks.

"How… How b-bad is it?" Came the fragile voice from the quaking man lying on the floor. Nobody seemed ready to answer, so Germany turned slightly towards the television, stuttering a lie past his lips.

"Ah…The smoke appears to be… lessening…?" The stern blonde murmured, "Looks like it's getting b-better…"

"_Liar!_" The rabid hiss rang through the air as the American began muttering gibberish phrases, as though in a rage. The cursed muck continued to flood.

The minutes ticked by, and nerves were played upon as a child's violin. Something was going to happen, the apprehension was visible in the air as nations sat, focused on either the bright screen or the anguished boy on the floor. Most chose the television, for the latter option was heartbreaking, at the least. A few mumbled softly into their cell phones, shooting looks towards the blonde as they tried to wrench information from their own, unknowing sources.

But after so many aching minutes, something _did _happen. The accelerated, rasping gasps flooding from America suddenly stopped. The sound had been so loud, so **alive, **that all heads immediately snapped towards the absent source. The boy's eyes were stretched wide, almost disbelieving as his muscles clenched and seized in one, stammering motion. Russia, being closest, snapped his arms out and pinned America's torso to the floor, jaw clenched.

The third scream shattered the air. So much more devastating than the previous two, as his body quaked and thrashed while his screech scratched at his vocal cords with fierce determination. It silences just as quickly, but he's barely breathing now. Having broken past Russia's grip, his spine arcs upwards to an alarming angle as his hands furiously slash at his eyes.

"Stop it! _Stop it!_ _StopitStopit! Make it stop! No-" _His cries broke off into yet another scream and the silver sludge gushed ever faster.

They turned as one towards the television. Just in time to watch the first Tower subside, and collapse to the ground under a tumor of flame.

It was not pretty. There was no way to glamorize it. And it should never be glamorized.

Nations, immortal men whom had seen countless tragedies and bloodbaths, choked and gasped. Their heads jerked to focus away from the screen as a few fled the room.

"Oh…Oh God… _Alfred._" Italy sobbed and knelt beside America, gripping his hand. The nation in question appeared… stricken, cherry eyes blinking owlishly at the ceiling as fragments of words skirted past his lips. The torment of his people, drifted out from the depths of his being.

"J-Jump…-he pain… Scorchi-…_ Trapped_…" A sobbing hiccup burst through his lips, "-airs! _Where the hell are the sta-_… Ph-Phone… G-Gotta call T-Tina…'M sorry, hafta tell her… Sav- No! G-Go back! Down… Down the stairs… B-Before-" His words cut off with a chilling groan.

"No…No…No…"

The Second Tower fell in a sequence much like the first, with even more countries running from the room, unable to stand through the utter _wrongness _of it all. Italy remained between France and Russia, directly above America's head as he prayed softly in his flowing, foreign tongue, eyes upturned.

At some point, the TV had been turned off. Nobody knew who stabbed at the button, but all were quite grateful.

After nearly an hour, almost every nation had filed back into the room in a trickling stream, heads bowed in a mourning silence. The blonde on the floor abruptly jerked himself from the hands of his friends, snatching his glasses up from where they had sat on the table. America stood, eyes haunted with the lingering pulses of red as he scanned the room.

"Hopefully you will all excuse my behavior; I did not mean to make quite so much of a scene. But thank you, I will be taking my leave now, as I am sure I am needed at home." The words that tumbled emotionlessly from his lips were laced with a tone of utter devastation, but a devastation that remained unhealthy detained. The grim country grabbed his jacket, pulled it roughly across his back, and shuddered as he adjusted it to lie correctly. Silence pressed upon the room with a marble glove, stifling even those who rose to their feet, as though to delay the man.

"Ah…Alfred…?" England knew it would be one of the daftest questions he would ever ask, but he still needed an answer, "Will you… Will you be alright?"

The United States of America froze, and slowly turned to face the people he thought of as family. The expression on his face was one of legitimate contemplation, for though the others imagined the answer to be immediate, that was far from true. He blinked a few times, and then sighed softly.

"Maybe someday, Arthur. Maybe. When I eventually learn to forgive."

Alfred paused then, eyes suddenly growing rigid and frozen. The nation's voice changed, morphed into hundreds of millions of people, men, children, and women, of all ages and dialects. They all spoke the same message, translated through the single mouth of one man, _their _Alfred, _their _country.

"But we will never forget."

* * *

**_First off: I truly do not mean for anybody to be offended, nor upset, by this fanfiction. It is a memorial to those who lost their lives that fateful day. If a loved one was lost in the September 11th attacks, I am truly sorry. Please, don't take this offensively. I mean no harm.  
_  
Obligatory A/N: Alright, first story on here. I jumped around a lot with my verb tenses, so corrections are greatly appreciated. This story will end up being the first of an unconnected series of oneshots and drabbles that have to do with the tragedies that strike the nations. I am so lame.  
Thanks for reading, and as the ever-overused author's saying goes: Reviews are nice. Oh, and sorry it's short.**


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